


Salt, Sweet

by Fontainebleau



Series: See Me, Feel Me [1]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: All fluff all of the time, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:50:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8764840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fontainebleau/pseuds/Fontainebleau
Summary: Sometimes you just need to find the right language.





	

Billy knows he’s not demonstrative; it just doesn’t come naturally to him. Since their friendship became something more, something they both hesitate to name, Goody has begun to show his affection in uncounted ways, given with an unheeding spontaneity which he can’t begin to match. Goody pays him outrageous compliments in that Louisiana drawl, is generous with kisses and caresses now he’s confident they’ll be welcome, has even gone so far as to buy him small gifts. Billy wishes with all his heart he could reciprocate as easily and unselfconsciously, but the words won’t come, even in his own language, and he feels foolish courting Goody. Their relationship is something so unexpected, so unlooked-for, that he has no compass to make sense of it; it’s as though he suddenly stepped over a cliff, found air under his feet instead of earth, discovering something so powerful and new that he must invent love for himself, step by uncharted step.

It’s not that he finds nothing in Goody to compliment, far from it, but he finds it so difficult to express – where Goody can wax lyrical about his silken fall of hair and the perfection of his stomach, Billy doesn’t really think about his lover in that disparate way. Goody, to him, is more a composite of scent and sound, warmth and sensation: what makes desire flare to life in him is the touch of his hand on his neck, the scent of a grey army coat, the curling rhythm of a French phrase, things too formless to describe in mundane language. Silent and inexpressive have served him so well all these years; though Goody asks nothing from him but his presence, he wishes he had more to offer.

\--

He wakes up under a rosy morning sky in a warm roll of blankets. The flushing heat of skin to skin is gone, Goody already up and fixing coffee, but Billy turns and wraps himself in the blankets, inhaling their musky scent of sex and sleeping bodies. It’s a newly-discovered luxury of sharing a bed, the simmering concentrated scent of breath and hair and closeness which he’ll carry faintly on his skin through the day like a fading ember.

Goody pours the coffee and he sits up, hauling a blanket round his shoulders to protect himself from the early chill.

‘Always a fair sight, even half asleep,’ says Goody, handing him a cup.

‘You’re not usually so lively in the morning.’

‘Hitting town today; we have a public to impress, and some of us have to make an effort.’ And yes, Goody is making an effort: clean shirt, well-tied necktie, polished boots. Both of their clothes are deliberately chosen to say much about them, Goody’s as much an expression of his persona as Billy’s own: the grey coat, the blue vest with the fleur-de-lis pins and watch-chain, the tall cavalry boots, a mixture of the experiences he’s had and the man he wants to be, the clothes so grown into him that to change them would be to change himself.

Goody, ever the gentleman, takes himself off to a distance to relieve himself, and Billy reaches for his clothes, flung off into a twisted heap at a certain point last night. He untangles Goody’s blue shirt from his own white one and is about to put it onto the bedroll for him when a thought strikes him. Goody’s shirts are carefully chosen to match his vest and coat in shades of blue and grey, of finer fabric and cut than normally found so far from civilised society; this particular one has seen a few days’ wear.

He dresses himself in pants and boots, and waits half-naked, tying and pinning his hair, until he hears Goody coming back. Arms wrap around his waist from behind. ‘Is this exhibition for my benefit? Because if it is, I can assure you it’s most effective.’

Billy asks, ‘Can I wear your shirt?’

‘Sure, find you a clean one,’ says Goody, turning towards his bag.

‘No,’ says Billy, putting a hand on his arm. ‘Can I wear this shirt?’

Goody’s face changes, and he looks at Billy for a long moment. Then he says, ‘Let me.’ He takes the shirt, shakes it out and holds it for Billy to slip his arms into the sleeves, then draws it smooth over his shoulders, settling the collar at the back. He comes round to the front and fastens the buttons one by one, head bent in concentration. ‘Sleeves rolled up?’ He rolls each sleeve carefully to the elbow, making each turn neat and regular, then stands back. Billy tucks the tails into his pants and hitches up his suspenders. ‘Michelangelo’s David in a sweated shirt,’ comments Goody, though his voice is not quite steady. ‘Vest?’ asks Billy. Goody passes it to him, and he puts it on and buttons it. Goody reaches to untuck his collar, then raises a hand to his cheek. ‘Perfect’.

The shirt is newer than his own well-worn clothes, the material crisper, with salt-crust stains where it’s been sweated through and dried. It carries Goody’s indefinable warm scent, settled into the fabric over days of wear; Billy’s skin feels alive underneath it from collar to wrist and waist. All through the morning’s ride he’s aware of Goody watching him with those blue, blue eyes, saying nothing, when he runs a finger under the collar to loosen it as the day’s heat builds or rerolls a sleeve; he thinks of his own scent gradually infusing and blending in it.

\--

Arriving in a new town the first evening has to be groundwork, trawling the saloons making themselves known, Goody turning up the showmanship and Billy cultivating his air of sphinx-like superiority, both designed to lure in the overconfident, prejudiced and rash. It’s becoming a well-worn routine, and Billy’s happy to play his part lounging at a series of bars, treating the room to cold stares as Goody talks up his abilities. But tonight there’s something alive between them, more than the straightforward wish for privacy and the comfort of a real bed; Goody, who would normally be within touching distance, leaning against his shoulder or placing a casual hand on his back, is circumspect, at least ten feet away, keeping his hands to himself, but watching, always watching, blue eyes gone black with desire.

When the door closes behind them, dulling the shouts and distant music, he expects Goody to be reaching for him all urgent and hot, but instead he moves around the room taking his time, lighting the lamp, hanging up hat and coat, laying out what he needs, all the time with that dark gaze holding him suspended, waiting. When he’s ready he comes over to draw him wordlessly into a long possessive kiss. For once he’s silent, determined, methodically stripping him, pressing him down onto the bed to lick and taste, tracing their mingled scents across his body until they’re both slick and burning. He takes Billy slow and tender and thorough until he’s beyond control, struggling and cursing and crying out his name.

In the morning Billy, in his own clothes again, sits on the bed watching Goody washing at the bowl. He dries himself off, then picks his shirt from yesterday off the peg where he hung it, folds it carefully and packs it away. ‘If you would?’ He holds out a hand, and Billy passes him his blue shirt. Goody takes it and slides it back on. He unrolls the sleeves, smooths them down and buttons the cuffs at the wrist, ties his necktie, then fastens his vest over the top. His smile is openhearted. ‘There. Ready to face the world.’ And Billy knows that his words have been heard.

**Author's Note:**

> The blue shirt is the one which Goodnight is wearing as he inspires the troops, in which scene it is quite impressively sweaty.


End file.
